


Oswin

by Lex_Munro



Series: Stories From the Fateverse [25]
Category: Doctor Who, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Crossover, Gen, Genderswap, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 18:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6819886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lex_Munro/pseuds/Lex_Munro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswin is at the Junk Heap because she's waiting to be found.  The story can't start until you open the book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oswin

**Author's Note:**

> notes: 1) Theodora 'Dory' Kaplan is, as you might expect, a fem!Teddy (well, she could be a Teddy if she wanted, because shapeshifters...). 2) Mildred's whispers are all lines from interactions between Clara and the Doctor. 3) i mentally cast the lovely Reshma Shetty as this face of the Doctor.

**Oswin**

 

Clara told herself she wasn’t running.

Of _course_ she wasn’t running, ha ha, she was sitting on the floor sorting things into little piles.

Forced smile.

All right, even if she _was_ running (in a general, metaphorical sense), she’d earned that.  A dear friend had died, and Clara was feeling suffocated by all the sympathy that should’ve been going to her friend’s _family_ , and then a big blue police box had just appeared.

The first thing to cross her mind at the time had been ‘police boxes were never that big, were they?’

The second thing was ‘and it’s bigger on the inside.’

“Clara, honey?” Dory called from somewhere across the grotto.

“Sorting drawer-fillers,” she replied.

So, running away from people tearily patting her and giving misplaced condolences led to here and now, working in an inter-dimensional junk heap for a neurotic little man and his doting Amazon-princess wife.

Dory was tucking the ends of a scarf neatly into the collar of her coat as she approached.  “I’m headed into town for some groceries; want anything special for dinner?”

“How are you at soufflés?”

“I think I could whip something up, if I can get my hands on some good eggs.  There’s tea in the pot; make sure Will has a cup.”

“Will do,” Clara promised with a grin.

After an awkward little moment of hesitation, Dory leaned down and hugged her.  “Be back soon.”  And away she went.

The blonde really was a sweet woman, but she had a distressing tendency to treat Clara like a child.

Shrugging, Clara went back to putting small items into separate jars.  Loose change.  Lost screws.  Earring-backs.  Candy wrappers.  Old cough drops.  Paper clips.  Bobby pins.

It was a weekly task at the grotto, pulling out what Will called the ‘kipple drawers’ and putting their contents into the appropriate jars.  Funny how the jars never got full and the drawers never got empty…

“Oswin?” Will called.  “Oswin!”

Rolling her eyes, Clara put the lids on all the jars and got up, dusting herself off as she wove through the tables.  “I keep telling you, it’s _Oswald_.”

He leaned out from behind one of the shabbier police boxes and blinked at her.  “Oswin, have you seen my tea?  I could swear I had tea.”

“It’s still in the pot, because you haven’t fixed yourself a cup.”

He blinked again.  “All right.  I’ll go do that while you finish dusting Mildred.  _Don’t_ get in and _don’t_ wander off.  Last time she wandered off, it took three days to uproot all the Harknesses she brought back.  Like a flock of oversexed seagulls…”

“Harknesses?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

He held up both hands in a ‘stop’ motion.  “Don’t, don’t—don’t ask.  He’s—it’s—no.  Just no.  Dusting and _not_ getting in and _not_ wandering off.  I’ll.  I’m.  Tea.”  And he wove his way toward the kitchen, automatically ducking and dodging various collections hanging from the ceiling.

Clara picked up Will’s discarded dustcloth and rubbed at the glass of the shabby box’s windows.  “Mildred, eh?  I’m Clara.  You know, you don’t really strike me as a ‘Mildred.’”

Something clicked, and the door swung open just a crack.  Delicious golden light spilled out, chased by whispers.

_where do you get the eggs?_

_if you just go back to sleep_

_you’re my impossible girl_

_will always have my back_

_goodness has nothing to do with it_

_run, you clever boy…and remember…_

Startled, Clara quickly shut the door again, and the whispers vanished like smoke being sucked out a flue.

“Mildred!” Will scolded.  “Bad girl!  What a naughty TARDIS you are!”

“What was that?” Clara asked shakily.

“Nothing!” Will yelped like some guilty teenager caught with porn.  “Absolutely nothing, and it’s a complete coincidence that one of those voices sounded like you, and, and it’s _long_ since over and done with.  So.  It’s not like you could theoretically help anybody by poking around.  Mildred just gets kind of homicidally lonely.”

She bit her lips and tried to clam down.  For some reason, the whispers made her want to cry.  “Will, why did the other box bring me here?”

He wrung his hands, head ducked.  “I,” he said.  “Well.  They mostly…  Have you noticed that things just—just _appear_ here and then, then, then they just _disappear_?”

“That’s why I keep thinking something’s been moved when I look away.”

He nodded.  “They come here when someone loses them, to wait until it’s time for someone to find them again.”

“Hang on—are you saying I’m lost?”

He shrugged.  “You’re waiting to be found, anyway.”

Something in her felt eager.  It shivered through her like a sudden chill up her spine.

Will made a vague gesture to the big blue boxes.  “Sorry, I…I can’t tell you any more.  You’ll see.  A few more days.  Just wait a few more days.”

She nodded mutely, convinced that if she tried to speak, all that would come out would be the butterflies in her stomach.

A few more days.

But being told to wait ‘just a few more days’ gave Clara a giddy, excitable sort of impatience, like knowing what her birthday present would be but not being allowed to open it early.  Like Christmas Eve at the age of four, not clever enough to peek without being caught and having her fingers swatted.

She fell into a routine.

Wake up with a grin.  Wash up and get dressed.  Sit down to breakfast and ask, _Is it today?_

And each time, Will just smiled at her and said, _Soon_. 

Then, just as she thought she couldn’t take any more—

“Dory and I have to…step out for a bit,” Will said instead of answering.

His wife gave away the game by sniffling and hugging Clara tightly.  “Always bring a jacket,” Dory advised.  “And an umbrella.  Even if you think you won’t need them.  And don’t go to bed with wet hair.  And eat your veggies.  And—”

“Dory,” Will interrupted.

Almost as soon as they were gone, Clara noticed a new blue box in the corner, its little windows glowing merrily.

In front of the box was a woman, slender and brown-skinned with smooth black hair; she felt so singular, so important, but Clara got the feeling that if she asked for a name, she’d get a silly lie.  _Jane Smith_ maybe, or _Rani Patel_ , or _Farida Khan_.  She was a tangible presence, a barrage of perfect moments.  She was like puffing a dandelion, or striking a match, or biting a ripe peach.

Darkly stained lips curving.  “Come along, Oswin,” the woman said.  “What’re you waiting for, numpty?”

Clara shook her head, blinking back tears and grinning so hard her cheeks were sore.  “I—I think— _you_.  I was waiting for _you_.”

Straight white teeth, twinkling brown eyes.  “Well of course you were.  All the more reason not to dally; the story can’t start until you open the book.”  Manicured brown fingers dancing along the edge of a blue door.

Clara hesitated.  “I don’t even know the title.”

“Doctor.”

“Doctor who?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Say I open the cover.  What’s next?”

A fairytale creak of hinges, a slice of that delicious golden light again, a musical sound of enticing whispers.

“Page one,” the woman murmured with glee.

 

**.End.**


End file.
